Erik Is Dead?
by Nightvision-uk
Summary: Christine returns to Paris to bury Erik as she promised. I always thought the ending of the novel was rather suspicious...
1. The Promise

_I haven't a clue what happens next, but hopefully inspirartion will strike soon. It' s an exercise for me to get the style right, really._

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**Erik Is Dead...?**

The new Comtesse De Chagny did not tell her husband the true reason for her return to Paris. Since the death of Phillippe and associated events, any mention of the Opera House sent him into a mind-fever of distressing intensity. Therefore, Christine let him believe that she was, in fact, visiting at Perros, and would return in a few days time

For Christine, promises were promises. The naivety that led her to abandon personal safety was still part of her character. Had Raoul an inkling of her destination, this author firmly believes he would immediately jumped on a horse and ridden from Stockholm to Paris non-stop, but he did not know, and we must leave him in blissful ignorance, but with a more deeply furrowed brow, in the country house he shared with Christine. 

As for Christine herself, she was much changed in appearance. Gone were her flowing golden curls, and wan complexion. She was the very image of Parisien fashion, so much so that when Monsieurs Debienne and Poligny passed her in the Opera foyer, they did not recognise her. She was inconspicuous in ice-blue cloak and matching high-waisted gown which betrayed the fact that she was with child. She might have been any lady visiting the Opera for the day, except that she was unchaperoned.

Having slipped a note to one of the ushers, she retired in one of the many alcove seats reserved for the use of waiting patrons, and awaited the arrival of Madame Giry.

As people passed to and fro, she was sad that she recognised very few faces. The crop of junior attendants had no doubt attained their uniforms and had been replaced by a new batch of fresh-faced youths. One of them was watching her from behind a pillar with undisguised interest.

The boy seemed out of place amongst his peers. His hollow cheeks could only have been a remnant of infantile consumption, and his eyes were dark and brooding. No reaction gave he when one of the other boys kicked at him in passing – even the ticket sellers seemed to regard him coldly – he was not one of them. His expressionless gaze was unlike the simple curiosity of a child, but when Christine turned her head towards him to study him more closely, he had disappeared.

"My dear, Christine!" gushed Madame Giry, swooping into the alcove and burying Christine in kisses and folds of taffeta. "Oh I prayed you would come back to us! And you look so well! Why, you are positively radiant!"

"There is a reason for my radiance," smiled Christine, putting one half of her cloak aside for a moment.

"Oh unspeakably wonderful news! To be a mother is God's greatest gift! My Meg, of course, she glorifies me daily. She is Prima Ballerina in Othello – what do you think of that!"

"They are putting Othello on again?"

"Why yes, my dear girl, you look quite pale? Oh I had quite forgot. You must forgive me…"

"It was a long time ago," said Christine, "It's a cross that time will help me to bear."

Madame Giry sat down and took Christine's hand.

"I wonder at the wisdom of you coming here in your condition, but the news you have heard is true." She continued. "The Opera Ghost is dead. But let others deal with it, I truthfully did not expect you to come."

"I made a promise." Christine replied, simply.

Madame Giry looked concerned.

"I'm sure I don't know what he expects…expected you to do. The Persian found him, and it was he that told me to write to you, not wishing to upset your husband. What a terrible thing, to lose one's brother. I am sure Monsieur De Chagny must have fought hard with himself, to allow you to visit your old friend Madame Giry!"

Christine reddened. She was never a good liar.

"Do you have anything from the Persian for me, then?" she asked.

Madame Giry withdrew a sealed letter from the bag she always carried. It was the same bag she had once used to convey Erik's letters.

"Here. I had it from him yesterday. I pray it brings you some peace, whatever it contains." She looked as though she wanted to stay, but Christine thwarted her by immediately putting the letter away in the folds of her cloak.

"Thank you Madame. You have been very kind."

"Me? Oh, I always liked you. I never heard a purer voice in all my years here, and never knew a purer heart. Be well my dear, and don't forget me!"

Madame Giry smothered her with kisses once more, and then disappeared into the growing crowd in the Foyer.

The time of the performance was nearing, and Christine smiled as she remembered the excitement such hustle and bustle used to bring her. She sang for Raoul sometimes, when he begged her, but since leaving Paris behind, she felt she had also left a little of her soul. She had not sung with the same passion again.

She took out the letter, and was about to slide her thumbnail under the seal, when she caught sight of the sickly-looking boy. He had resumed his post by the pillar, and the way he watched her, with those unsmiling eyes destroyed her feelings of nostalgia. She decided to leave.

In the safety of her hotel room, Christine unfolded the letter from the Persian.

_Madame_, it said.

The Opera Ghost was happy to remain friendless, and his confidences are kept between you and myself only. He bade me write to you of his death, and to also wish you a happier life than ever was his.

_He begs your forgiveness for the injury he has caused you, but also asks that you remember him kindly and never forget the music that he shared with you. He asks that perhaps sometimes, when you sing, you will think of him and direct the song to him in whichever realm he now abides._

A tear dropped from Christine's eye to the page, smearing the ink. How well she could remember the sonorous tones that had so entranced and intoxicated her. How could she ever forget!

_He is laid in his coffin, in the house on the lake, and begs you to remember the last rites you promised to bear to him personally. I am not permitted to accompany you. On this point he is most strict._

_May God bless you and protect you_

There the letter ended.

Christine was flooded with a mix of sorrow and relief: she was afraid Erik might have borne her some ill-will, she resolved to put the matter to rest on the morrow, and retired to bed.

Yet her dreams were filled with dread and sorrow, and the distant cries of children...


	2. The New Prima Ballerina

_Thank you for all the favourable reviews! I hope I am worthy of them. Just to clarify, I am using the Novel and the Characters owned by Leroux as my inspiration, which may give rise to some confusion because in the film their relationships were often portrayed slightly differently._

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Christine awoke to find Meg Giry waiting for her downstairs. Meg was now a willowy slender girl on the brink of womanhood. The Ballet had given her the extra grace required to attract a following of eager-eyed young men, which was possibly why her performances were sold out within the day. 

They embraced in that peculiar way exclusive to performing artists: Meg thought Christine was jaded and peculiar, Christine thought Meg was affected and vain.

Madame Giry had arranged things so that Christine would be Meg's dresser for the day, affording her access to the deeper workings of the opera once again. Meg was not entirely happy about the arrangement, resenting the fact she had never been told much about the drama that had caused Christine to leave. She intended to pry as much as she could.

They exchanged niceties, but on their journey to the opera no-one could have mistaken them for friends.

"Mama tells me you were very good friends with the Opera Ghost," said Meg, "She says that he gave you your voice."

Christine did not know how to react to this.

"God gave me my voice, just as he gave you the talent to dance."

"Oh, I don't believe in God," said Meg, "Nor superstitions generally. Such thoughts are outdated, don't you think?"

"They generally have a sound basis in true events."

"Indeed! So the Opera Ghost did come to you then! So the rumours are true!"

"I would think that modern thinkers ought to pay as much attention to rumours as they do superstitions." replied Christine, and there the conversation ended as the Carriage pulled up outside the Opera House. Both ladies alighted looking rather flushed. Meg was thereafter determined not to let Christine out of her sight.

The Prima Ballerina's dressing room was choked from wall to wall with flowers. In addition a portrait of the celebrated female hung on one wall. Christine was reminded uncomfortably of La Sorrelli. She had begun her career in much the same way, but when adoration inevitably faded, she had driven herself mad. It sometimes seemed that the Opera was great greenhouse of flowering insanity and the Opera Ghost was the seed-sower and harvester of all.

Meg had decided Christine should be her personal lackey for the day and not restrict her duties to dressing. She was most particular that Christine should clean her ballet slippers, stained with blood from her multiple Pliees. The blood would not be removed – Christine would be occupied for most of the day with no chance to slip away.

"I need them for the finalé," Meg had said, notwithstanding the fact she had four more flawless pairs.

Christine laboured in her impromptu role of Cinderella, becoming increasingly anxious. Time was passing, and her sense of anxiety was increasing. In spite of herself she did long to see Erik's face again, however terrible death had rendered it.

In times past, it would have been he who manipulated her obligations so that she would be free to see him. The Opera House was the warehouse of his genius – she had only seen a quarter of his subterranean life. Without him the Opera would be a factory and nothing more, a place for egos to come and go. With him it became a place of mystery and surprise, a place of passion. A Castle haunted by terrible yet brilliant dreams.

Once she had recovered from the terror of being plunged into its depths, she could not help but marvel at the ingenuity of his works. He had harnessed the lake that once threatened the stability of the building itself. He knew and loved each of the stones that held it together. He was akin to a deity, holding sway over the fortunes of those who debated his existence. A Fallen Angel indeed...who would love the Opera now?

She abandoned her task and wept.

The door creaked, and she looked up, expecting the return of Meg from her interval, but it was not – it was the anaemic looking boy she had noticed the day before.

He held a pair of ballet slippers, the same size and style as the ones she was cleaning. He raised a thin finger to his lips and dropped them to the floor, in place of the soiled ones. Then he beckoned her to follow him…


	3. Chapter 3

Meanwhile, in an uninteresting suburb of the same city, and old man was peering over the morning's papers and his letters. As was his habit, he had gathered all his reading material together, now that in advancing years he could only read comfortably for an hour.

There were but three items this particular morning; an invitation to the distinguished Professor Nadir Zadeh to repeat his lecture on Persian court customs), a card of thanks from the journalist Mr Leroux regarding their meeting (something he still had mixed feelings about, in truth) and a something which dropped to the floor as soon as he beheld the writing he recognised and never thought to lay eyes upon again.

After he had restored himself with a brandy he unfolded the following missive:

_Dearest Madame Giry,_

_I hope this letter finds you and Meg in the very best of health. I read with interest of her advancing career of which you must be very proud. I insist you return to me with news of the Opera and its inmates. How sad that La Sorelli should be committed to the Asylum! With her temperament, I confess I am not surprised, as you remember, her fiery outbursts towards me were something to behold. My father often said that the artist should beware of madness. I wish I had understood his words more fully at the time._

_I write to you to tell me whether what I read in the Epoque is true: that my Erik is dead? Oh, You need not answer me: I already know in my heart. I knew the moment it happened._

_Well, I pray it will give Raoul some peace. I know a little of grief, but for men it seems so different. I try as I may but I know that I will forever remind him of the sacrifice he made. I know what it is to lose a Father in old age, but not a brother in youth._

_Mame Giry, he is not the man he was, and I have no way to console him, and now I have my own pain. I wonder what will happen to us. I was foolish to think that we could leave The Opera behind. _

_Raoul always found my childlike nature refreshing: he said, and I suppose that I thought marriage would complete what was wanting in me, but it has failed. He once said to me that I needed love of the dangerous and unspeakable kind, and I took it as an insult, not once considering he may have been right. His gentle nature does not hide deep fires nor still waters. I thought as long as I had light and love and music then nothing could come between us. I have light, and I have love but I can no longer sing, and if I can no longer sing I am nothing. Erik himself has cursed me, I am sure. The physicians have been to me because there is no life in my womb. _

_I am so dreadfully afraid, that there will be no little Philippe to tell the story of our love, and if there were, could he thrive with a Mother who is a child herself?_

_I tell you I knew Erik was dead, because he told me so himself. _

_It was last night, and Raoul was sleeping. My dreams were filled with the Opera. I saw it all, the Scene Dressers, the Door Shutters going about their business. I even saw the Spy. _

_In my dream I was preparing for Othello, as I used to do, but there was no costume for me. I asked my dresser to search the other dressing rooms, and as I was alone, Erik came to me just as he used to – I mean that I heard his voice only. He said that the performance had changed, and it would be Don Juan Triumphant after all._

_I was terrified, I knew from the past what that meant, and I felt I must warn everyone! I flung open the door of my dressing room, and found to my dismay that I had been in his house by the lake all along…and I had opened the door into the torture chamber!_

_It was all there, the Iron tree, the blazing sun, and high in the branches of the tree, a Crib where I could hear a baby crying. I wanted to protect the child from the blazing sun, but I could not reach it, and then there were a thousand babies crying, and a thousand trees, just as Raoul described to me, and I could not find which one was real and which were illusions. I heard Erik laughing, and the crib fell and smashed on the ground. The baby was a doll, all artifice, a trick of Erik's. There was no life in it. It was a changeling made of pottery, but it kept wailing and it frightened me. I heard Erik say, "A Dead child to a Living Father, or a Dead child to a Dead Father! You were never good at making decisions, Christine!" _

_I woke up, then, and there was a trickle of blood on the sheet, and Raoul called the physicians, they said there was nothing to fear…yet I fear so much. If I had only known I would never have given him such mercy. I would never have sealed it all with a kiss I did not believe._

_What can it mean? _

_Dear, dear Madame Giry, please write to me soon! Does Erik still leave you sweets in box five? Is the Opera as it should be?_

_Your friend,_

_Christine De Chagny_

The Persian, for of course it was he, was overcome with dread. Of course this letter had never been delivered to Madame Giry, it had been sent to him, under the name he now used. This alone would be enough to cause fright except for that the address was written in a red ink he recognised too well: and that the same pen had underlined the wording towards the end "_I would never have sealed it all with a kiss I did not believe."_

And this hand has underlined the same with such force that the paper was torn through.


End file.
